THE CONFLICT 



A Drama 
In One Act 



By CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY 




VAGABOND PLAYS -No. 6 



THE CONFLICT 



A Drama in One Act 



BT 
CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY 



The Norman, Remington Company 

Baltimore 

1921 



^;^V-^ 



Copyright, 1920, 1921 
By CLARICE VALLETTE McCAULEY 

Application for permission to produce 
this play should be made to Clarice 
Vallette McCauley, Columbia Univer- 
sity, New York City 



m -9 1921 



CI.D 57904 



n.\ 



THE CONFLICT 

First Produced 

at 

The Vagabond Theatre 

Monday Evening, December 6th, 1920 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

EMELIE Mrs. J. A. Dushane Penniman 

j Rose Kohler 
^^^^ I Harriet Gibbs 

BOB John Steuart 

MOTHER : Mrs. S. Johnson Poe 

Produced by May Standish Rose 

Setting by the Vagabond Workshop 



THE CONFLICT 

CHARACTERS 
in the order of their appearance 

Emelie The elder daughter of the house, 

who has already tested her wings in a first flight 

Bess Seventeen — just beginning to be 

aware of the world outside 

Bobs Thirteen — a vigorous young ani- 
mal with no wings to speak of as yet 

The Mother Guardian of the nest, and very 

jealous of the world — where her brood is con- 
cerned 



Scene: The kitchen of an old-fashioned farmhouse 



Time: Late afternoon of an April day. 



In the back wall, well to the right, is a door leading 
into the garden. Left of centre a broad window cur- 
tained in crisp white muslin. In the right wall- 
down stage — a door leading to the living-rooms at 
the front of the house. Just opposite — in the left 
wall — a door which when opened reveals a narrow 
flight of stairs which turn and disappear — evidently 
the back stairway leading to the rear bed-rooms. 

In the upper left hand corner a built-in kitchen 
range with copper preserving kettle above it. In 
the upper right a small sink with pump attachment 
— a little oak-framed mirror over it — a roller towel 

5 



THE CONFLICT 

on the wall beside it. Further down, on the right, 
a cupboard filled with old-fashioned china — a nest 
of yellow bowls — a pan of apples. A drop-leaf table 
down right of centre is covered with a pretty blue 
and white cloth — a cane-seated rocker on the right 
of it — on the left a straight chair to match. Between 
outer door and window is a little table with a work- 
basket on it — a clock hangs on the wall above it. 
Near the window a chair — on the sill potted gera- 
niums in bloom. The window is open and through 
it you get a glimpse of a white lilac bush in flower. 
The square of sunshine on the floor is gradually cut 
off diagonally — as though by a slanting roof^ — till 
near the end it disappears entirely. 

Note: The room should suggest by every detail 
of its cheery, wholesome orderliness a certain sym- 
pathetic plea for the mother. Otherwise, if the home 
were unattractive, there would at once be furnished 
a reason for the children's wish to leave it ; but there 
is no fundamental reason — other than the primordial 
urge to try our wings, which gets us all, sometime ; 
and which no mother can successfully deny without 
forever crippling her child. In contrast to the crisp, 
clear-cut details of the kitchen is the vague, hazy 
sunshininess of the garden outside the door. 

As the curtain rises Emelie is discovered seated 
at left of the centre table writing a letter. (On this 
table stands a small black traveling-bag, and scat- 
tered around it gloves, purse, a few letters.) 

Emelie is a tall girl of about twenty-three, not 
exactly beautiful, but with a certain nobility of pur- 
pose in her face that lends her distinction, and the 
lines of her slender figure in its solemn black are full 



THE CONFLICT 

of allurement. Her face quivers as she writes, and 
she stops a moment to wipe her eyes. There is the 
cheery, impudent call of a robin in the garden, and 
Bess enters from the living-room. 

Bess is a girl of seventeen. She is not in mourning 
like her sister, but her white skirt and middy-blouse 
are set off by a black tie, and a black ribbon on her 
hair. She has emptied a vase of withered flowers 
on to a newspaper, and carries them carefully before 
her, 

EMELIE 
(Looking up and referring to the flowers) 
Gone — are they? 

BESS 

Yes — lilacs droop so soon. I cut these for you to 
take with you on the train. 

EMELIE 

(Absent-mindedly, looking at her letter) 
I'm sorry, Puss 

BESS 

I'm not ; I'm, oh, so glad — ^you stayed ! 

(She has stopped back of the chair to give her 
sister a hug) 

You can't think how much even two days more 
means to us. You're surely going this time? 

EMELIE 

Yes. 

BESS 
(Going up towards window) 

Then I'd better cut you some more. The white 
ones by the window — they're in bloom now — and 

7 



THE CONFLICT 

they last longer, I think. Do you like them just as 
well? 

EMELIE 
{Writing) 
Just as well, dear. 

BESS 

{Raising the lid of the range and emptying news- 
paper) 

My! It's good I looked at this fire. It's almost 
gone. 

{Reaches into wood-box and puts wood on fire a^ 
she speaks) 

And Mother told Bob to tend to it, but of course 
he's out — as usual — dear knows where. 

{There's the sound of a rapidly passing train, and 
the sky above the window is darkened — as is the 
square of sunlight on the floor, Bess looks at the 
clock) 

There goes the express now. I suppose you'll take 
the 5:05? 

EMELIE 

Yes. * 

BESS 

Well — You'll want supper before you go. 

EMELIE 

No, Bess, don't bother. I'm not hungry — I can 
get tea on the train. 

BESS 
{Coming down) 
Sister, you haven't changed your mind ? 

EMELIE 

No. 

B 



THE CONFLICT 

BESS 
You're really going to New York ? 

EMELIE 

Yes. 

BESS 

Does Mother know? 

(Emelie nods) 

But she doesn't believe you'll do it? 

emelie 
I suppose not. 

BESS 

And when Mother sets her mind against anything 
we want to do — ^you know how it is — even Father 
always gave in to her — in the end. Don't you feel 
afraid — she'll persuade you not to go? 

EMELIE 

I hate to vex her, dear, but — well — neither of you 
quite understand. My whole future, my very life 
depends on this. 

(Under her breath) 

More than my life, perhaps. 

BESS 

{who has caught the last phrase, looks at her 
searchingly) 

Sister 

(Coming down back of the table) 
you know that talk — we — had — last night? After 
we had gone to bed? 

EMELIE 

Yes — I kept you awake till all hours. 

9 



THE CONFLICT 
BESS 

It was I kept you. Well — ^you know what you 
said — about how, sometimes, when you wanted 
something that wasn't good for you and didn't feel 
very strong — how it was awfully foolish to hang 
around in sight of it, and how it was much, much 
wiser to run away from temptation? 

EMELIE 

Yes. 

BESS 

{Coming around and kneeling softly beside her) 
Are you — running away — from temptation? 

EMELIE 

Little sister, dear little sister, what are you say- 
ing? 

BESS 
{With the frank persistence of a child) 
Are you ? 

EMELIE 

{Frames the earnest face in her hands, and as she 
stoops to kiss her, whispers) 
Sh — ^yes. 

BESS ^ 

Oh, I was sure of it ! Then that's why you're not 

going back to Boston. I knew it — I knew it — It's 

those letters! 

{Reaches towards them) 

EMELIE 

{Checking her) 

Darling! You don't know what you're talking 

10 



THE CONFLICT 

about. Those letters are from a very, very dear 

friend 

BESS 

(Convictingly) 

In Boston! 

EMELIE 

Well, yes 

BESS 

And they always make you cry — such funny tears ! 

EMELIE 

They spoke of Father — of our loss, dear. If they 
made me cry it was because they were so full of 
tenderness — of sympathy 

BESS 

You think so much of him, sister? 

EMELIE 

So much, dear. He's the best, the truest friend 
I ever had. 

BESS 

{Puzzled) 
Then why? 

EMELIE 

Don't, darling. I've no right I don't 

dare Oh, I can't explain 

BESS 

{Jealously) 

Well — ^just the same — I'm glad you're going to 
New York instead. I wish I were. Is that really an 
honest-to-goodness contract — ^that long one? 

{Indicating envelope) 

11 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

(Laughing and abandoning hope of writing for 
the time) 

Not exactly. It's an offer, though — from one of 
the biggest magazines in New York — suggesting 
subjects for four of my kiddie pictures. If they like 
them — and they shall like them — they'll produce 
them in colors. And then — it's up to the public; 
If the public likes them — if it laughs — and applauds 
— and clamors for more — why, then I can ask, oh, 
just anything I want for my work — in reason, of 
course — and they'll give it to me. That's the way 
of the world. 

BESS 

Isn't it splendid? And that's when you'll send for 
me? 

EMELIE 

Yes, dear — if Mother will let you 

BESS 

{Despairingly) 
Oh, Mother 

EMELIE 

Don't cross bridges, Honey. You know I must 
first be very sure that I can take care of you — before 
I talk to Mother. 

BESS 
You don't think I'll be too old, by then? 

EMELIE 
For music? You goosie, of course not! If you 
don't strain those sweet little vocal-cords of yours, 
you'll be just right to begin. Pussy, run along now 

12 



THE CONFLICT 

and cut the lilacs, won't you? — while I finish my 
letter. And send Bobs if you see him about. I 
want him to mail this for me. 

BESS 

(Going) 

I shouldn't wonder if that's where he's gone — ^to 
the post-office. Shall I raise the shade ? 

EMELIE 

Yes, dear; and leave the door open — the air's so 
good to-day. 

BESS 

{Taking a large scissors from a hook near the 
door) 

(Wistfully) 

I wish I was going to New York. 

(Goes out, leaving door open) 

(Through the open door the sun falls in a tessel- 
lated square — as though through a trellis — across 
the threshold. Emelie resumes her letter-writing, 
Bess is seen through the window at the lilac bush. 
There is no sound for a moment but the twittering 
of birds and a little dry sob from the girl at the table. 
Then a boy^s clear whistle is heard, to which Bess 
replies, and presently a boy's shadow falls across the 
threshold, and an instant later he is apparently 
joined by Bess, who has gone to meet him. By this 
time Emelie has sealed her letter and is address-- 
ing it) 

emelie 
(Calling) 
Bobbie! 

13 



THE CONFLICT 

BOB 

{From outside) 

All right, Sis! I'm coming. {Entering) Bess 
said you wanted me. 

(Bobbie is a hoy of twelve or thirteen— perfectly 
clean hut barefooted, and in the hoyish dishahille 
of a fellow that lives close to the ground. There is 
no suhtlety about Bobbie— /le's just plain Boy) 

EMELIE 

Yes, I — goodness, Bobs! Bare feet, so early in 
Spring! Won't you catch cold? 

bob 
Cold! Forget it! D'ye think I'm a girl? Say, 
Em! You're sure some letter writer. Gettin' 'em 
and sendin' 'em every mail— must keep you busy. 
Don't you want a secr'tary? 

EMELIE 

If I did, I wouldn't hire you— you fourth-grader, 

you! 

bob 

{Good-naturedly) 

Gee, what a wallop! Don't I make a pretty good 
fist at corresponding, though? Oh, well! Who 
wants to write, anyway? I got no use for a pen; 
but gimme a hammer an' saw an' some nails, an' 
I'll make you own up that I can't be beat turnin' 
out chick'n-coops. Ain't that right? 

EMELIE 

{Laughing) 

It surely is ; but good gracious, Bobs, haven't you 

14 



THE CONFLICT 

any ambition ? Don't you ever think what you want 
to be when you're a man? 

BOB 

Sure I do ! I'm goin' to stay right here and have 
the best little chick'n-farm in the county. Nothin' 
but Wy'ndottes an' Barr'd Rocks in mine! Well — 
mebbe some Leghorns f r the eggs. 

EMELIE 

{Smilingly) 

Oh, well! In that case, it's all right, I suppose. 
It's a good thing one of us wants to stick to the old 

place. If it were only Jim, now By the way, 

Bobs, where is Jim? I haven't seen him all day. 

BOB 

Off with the gang, I guess. 

EMELIE 

Oh, dear ! That isn't right. He ought to cut that 
out! — ^that's how he got into all that trouble. 

BOB 

You got it doped out wrong. Cutting it out's what 
got him in Dutch ! 

EMELIE 

Bob! What do you mean? I don't understand. 

BOB 
{Loftily) 

No, and nobody takes the trouble to understand a 
fellow around here. 

15 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

Robert! I don't think that's quite fair — not to 
me! 

BOB 

Oh, well, it makes me sore. Jim's all right — even 
if he does get pretty bossy sometimes. And Jim 
never got a square deal in this mixup — never, from 
nobody. Seems to me anyone could understand that 
you can't go out with fellers one day an' cut 'em 
out the next — just like that! 

{He makes a little 'perpendicular chopping-off ges- 
ture with one hand) 

But you know how Mother is! When she says 
cut it out — it means cut it out — just like that! Not 
to-morror', or th' next day — or lettin' 'em down 
easy — but now! Well, the night she said "No more 
of it!" the gang was meetin' at Dutch Heinie's for 
a game o' cards 

EMELIE 

Oh, Bobbie! 

BOB 

Oh, well — they'd been meetin' all winter — nothin' 
to it! But sombody must've got wind of it — an' 
the whole crowd gets pinched! — an' of course, just 
'cause Jim had cut it out so sudden and shame-faced 
like, they thought he was the squealer — and mebbe 
they didn't have trouble planted for him from that 
on. Say, he didn't any more break into Martin's 
show-case than I did. 

EMELIE 

Of course he didn't! My own brother! Don't I 
know that, Bobs? 

16 



THE CONFLICT 

BOB 

Well, if you'd heard Mother questioning him — 
you*d 'a' thought he was a liar as well as a thief. 

EMELIE 

Sh — Bobbie ! That's the unfortunate part of it. 
That's what he got for going with bad company. 

BOB 

Well — he sure had enough of 'em. When he got 
out didn't he just beg Mother to let him get away 
from here? He knows they're no good — but in a 
little place like this what's a fellow goin' to do? 
He wanted to go to Fall River ; Uncle Zack'd 'a' got 
him a job there. But Mother said he was too young 
to be breaking home ties. 

EMELIE 

Oh, Bobbie — you don't understand, dear. Mother 
didn't want him away then, with Father sick. 

BOB 

(Sullenly) 

No, and she won't let him go now, with Father 

(He stops, gulps, and turns away suddenly, brush- 
ing his eyes with his coat-sleeve) 

EMELIE 

(Going to him) 

There, there, Bobbie — I know ! It does seem as if 
everything was set against his getting a chance. 
But we will have to think hard — and stand together 
— and just be patient a little longer. 

17 



THE CONFLICT 

BOB 

Well, I'll tell you something ! It wouldn't surprise 
me none if he'd run away and enlist some day. 

EMELIE 

He can't! He's too young. 

BOB 

What's the matter with lying? 

EMELIE 

Bobby! 

BOB 

Oh, well, Jiminy Crickuts ! If I wanted to get out 
of a place as bad as Jim does out 'a this one my brain 
'u'd get so cracked I'd forget my name — let alone 
my birthday. Where's Mother? Out? 

EMELIE 

I think she's taking a nap, dear — she went up to 
lie down. You know she's all worn out with nurs- 
ing 

BOB 

(Nodding and speaking quickly) 

Does she take it all right — you're going? 

EMELIE 

Bobs, dear! I don't like to hear you speak of 
Mother that way. 

BOB 

Aw, gee ! 

EMELIE 

Well, I don't! It sounds so disrespectful. And 
you love her. 

18 



THE CONFLICT 

BOB 

Course I do — you know it ! 

EMELIE 

Sure I know it. Why, just think! You are her 
baby! 

BOB 

(Slyly) 

Say, I don't get no chance to forget that neither. 

EMELIE 

(Shaking him) 

Bobbie, you're incorrigible. 

BOB 
(Purposely as ungrammatical as he knows how to 
be) 

I ain't never goin' to get no chance to grow up ! 
I'm like that guy — what's his name? Peter Pan! 
That's me! Well, where's this letter you wanted 
me to mail? 

(Going to table) 

EMELIE 

You haven't been to the post-office? 

BOB 

No. 

(Half -sheepishly) 

Mrs. Lane's. She promised to have something 
for me. 

(Picks up letter) 

Bosting, eh? Well— Jumpin' Jee-hosaphat ! 
What do you want to mail this here for? Why don't 
you take it along? 

19 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

I'm not going that way. 

BOB 

You ain't going by the 5.15 to Boston 

EMELIE 

No, dear youth — I take the 5.05 to New York. 

BOB 

{Whistles) 

Mother know? 

(Enter Bess with lilacs) 

EMELIE 

Yes, she — knows, 

BOB 

Well, I'm off. 

{To Bess) 

Shall we show her what I got? 

{Exits) 

BESS 

{Explaining Bob's last speech) 
Pansies, Emelie. 

EMELIE 

Oh, for Father. 

{Taking the lilacs from Bess) 

Thank you, dear — they're beautiful — and like you. 
They'll go along to take care of me. Sweetheart. 

{Re-enter Bob with a broad, shallow basket filled 
with pansy plants) 

BOB 

Pansies! Ain't they beauts? Mrs. Lane gave 
'em to me. It looks so rough up there — no sod, nor 

20 



THE CONFLICT 

nothin' growin'. Bess an' I were goin' to set 'em out 
this afternoon, but they can wait till morning. I 
won't have more'n time to get to the post-office and 
back before your train goes. Well — you don't have 
far to go — ^that's one comfort. Comes in sort o' 
handy this havin' a private railroad station at your 
back door, eh? Well — I'm off. 

EMELIE 

Wait, Bobbie. I don't want you to come back here. 

BOB 

What ! Not to say good-bye ? 

EMELIE 

I can't say good-bye to you children that way. I 
don't want either of you here when — ^they're going 
to be so hard — these last few moments with Mother. 
Bess will take the pansies and wait for you — ^you 
know the little siding where the train almost stops? 
I'll wave good-bye to you there ; and after the train's 
gone, why you two can go to the cemetery together, 
and all the way to New York I'll be seeing you set- 
ting out the pansies on Father's grave. 

BOB 

Don't, Em! Funny how a feller misses him — 
though he hardly ever said much Aw' Gee! 

(Disgusted with himself for showing emotion) 

Take care of yourself, Em. Write soon ! 

{Rushes blindly off) 

(The two girls stand for a moment in each other's 
arms, then they break away with a guilty look at the 
clock) 

21 



THE CONFLICT 
BESS 

Do you think she's sleeping? 

EMELIE 

No. 

BESS 

Then why 

EMELIE 

Oh, it makes it so hard for me ! It's her way, you 

know Will you go up and tell her, dear, that 

I'm almost ready to go — and that there isn't much 
more time? 

BESS 
{Crossing towards the door to the hack stairway) 
Yes. What did you do with your suitcase. Sister ? 

EMELIE 

I sent it over early this afternoon. And Bess — I 
don't want to go up to the room again — you might 
just bring my hat and coat, dear — I have everything 
else. 

(Bess runs up the hack stairway, leaving the door 
swing open hehind her, 

Emelie gathers up her writing materials, drop- 
ping the letters into the little satchel. One of these 
she stops to reread; in the midst of it with a little 
soh, and a gesture of renunciation, she tears up the 
letter and drops the pieces into the fire. Coming 
back she stops and picks a pansy which she slips into 
the hook on the table before she drops that into the 
satchel, too. 

Bess comes down the stairs carrying Emelie's hat 
and coat) 

22 



THE CONFLICT 

BESS 

She'll be down in a minute. 

(Then, in reply to the question in Emelie's face) 

She was up — looking out of the window. 

EMELIE 

What did she say ? 

BESS 

Only that she thought you'd given up going. 





EMELIE 






(Sighs) 








Good-bye, dear. 


BESS 






You won't forget 


you're going 
EMELIE 


to send for 


me? 


I won't forget. 


BESS 







(Taking up basket) 

Bobs and I'll be at the siding. 

EMELIE 

And I'll be sure to lean out of the window and 
throw you kisses as far as I can see you. 

BESS 

(Tremulously) 
Good-bye. 

(She goes out waving her hand and is seen passing 
the window) 

EMELIE 

Good-bye, little sister — and God keep you, darling 
— as you are. 

23 



THE CONFLICT 

(Emelie turns and sees Mother, who during the 
last speech has come down the stairway. She has 
taken down the kitchen apron that is hanging on 
nail inside of door, and is putting it on. There is a 
moment's embarrassed pause, then Emelie speaks) 

Mother — I hated to disturb you ; but I was begin- 
ning to be afraid you might not waken till the last 
minute. 

MOTHER 

(Placidly) 

I wasn't asleep. I thought you'd reconsidered 
going. 

EMELIE 

Mother — ^you make it so hard for me - 

MOTHER 

I mean to make it hard — very hard. 

(She goes to the dresser and takes from it a large 
pan of apples, a knife and a bowl. Then she draws 
the cane-seated rocker to the left of the table and 
proceeds to peel the apples in long, thin, unbroken 
curls — possible only for the woman with a steady 
hand and no troublesome nerves) 

For that matter, Tve never said that staying right 
here was going to be the easy thing for you to do ; 
but you can't get out of the fact that it's your duty, 
Emelie. 

(The rocker stops a moment, as though its occu- 
pant expected a reply; then, as there is none, it con- 
tinues its placid rhythmic swing, as the Mother re- 
sumes her argument) 

You can't always have things the way you want 
them — and I don't think it would be good for you 
if you could. 

24 



THE CONFLICT 

(Emelie, who has come down behind the tablet 
makes a sudden sharp movement as though to speak, 
then closes her lips firmly. She picks up one of her 
gloves, examines it mechanically for a moment — and 
then goes up stage to the work basket, and stands 
there finding needle and thread, etc., during next 
speeches. Meanwhile all the mother's attention ap- 
pears to be centred on the careful coring and quarter- 
ing of the apple in her hand. She leisurely selects 
another before continuing) 

Now that youVe got used to your freedom and 
your own way, it's asking a sacrifice of you — I real- 
ize that ; but you'll have to make lots of them before 
you're as old as I am. 

EMELIE 

{With a sudden lift of her head, and in a tone — 
crisp, clean-cut, that somehow shows the fight is on) 
It's your idea of life, isn't it, Mother? 

MOTHER 

Making sacrifices? 

EMELIE 

Yes. 

MOTHER 

Well, it's a pretty big part of it — as you'll find out. 

EMELIE 

I'm a poor scholar. 

MOTHER 

When you don't like the lesson? 

25 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

Yes. For nearly twenty years I've tried to learn 
it, but — I can't do it. 

MOTHER 

How you exaggerate, Emelie. 

{There is nothing impetuous in the speech of these 
women — there is power — repose — reserve — at bot- 
tom both are very much alike) 

EMELIE 

Oh, no, I don't. Stop and think. I was three years 
old when Robert was born. I was expected to grow 
out of babyhood right then and there. And when he 
died — ^there was James to do for — and give in to. 
Do you remember what a naughty child I used to be? 
Poor little tempestuous mite — always being pun- 
ished — hardly ever understanding what for 

MOTHER 

Well, you did have a bad temper. 

EMELIE 

And, of course, that had to be sacrificed ! 

{At the little exclamation of surprise from her 
mother she continued hastily) 

Oh, I know that must sound absurd to you, be- 
cause you don't — perhaps you can't see it as I do ; but 
all the little things you didn't like about me — had to 
be lopped off, even if I was as surely maimed thereby 
as though you had cut off my arms and legs. Dear 
Mother ! I know you meant everything for the best 
— always ! You were determined I should be unsel- 
fish — well-disciplined — and self-controlled — cut out 

26 



THE CONFLICT 

and fashioned by a pattern on your nail; weren't 
you? 

{She has come down right of table during this 
speech, and on the last two words, to soften the un- 
filial tone of it, reaches out and just touches her 
mother's hand) 

MOTHER 

(Not hurt at all by the criticism — and equally un- 
touched by the caress) 

Do you think you're any the worse for it? 

EMELIE 

Who knows ? 

MOTHER 

I don't think you understand, Emelie. Just what 
do you mean to complain of? 

EMELIE 

I don't mean to complain of anything, dear. You 
loved us all devotedly — no one could have been a bet- 
ter mother — if only — 

{She hesitates, then finishes whimsically) 
If only you could have individualized us a bit, 
dear, instead of lumping us all together as just 
"your children." 

MOTHER 

{Her hands idle for a moment, she revolves what 
seemed to her an absurd arraignment; then, sur- 
rendering to the apparent need for justification) 

I suppose you will admit, Emelie, that you were a 
very jealous child? 

EMELIE 

Oh, undoubtedly ! Frightfully so ! Did you think 
you had cured me, Mother? 

27 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

I tried 

EMELIE 

On the contrary, you fed the flame — don't you see ? 
You exercised the unlovely thing till it grew strong. 
I learnt jealousy as a fine art at the mature age of 
seven. It frightens me to think how I used to feel — 
how I could feel now if any 

{She catches herself up and finishes rather lamely 
— as she goes back to the sewing table) 
anyone gave me cause. 

MOTHER 

(Looking back after her a moment — then down at 
her work) 

Emelie! You've never told us — me — much about 
your friends. 

EMELIE 

No? 

(She lingers a bit unnecessarily over the smooth- 
ing out of the gloves, but finally places them beside 
her hat and coat and comes slowly down to her 
mother's side) 

What is it you would like to know, Mother? 

MOTHER 

Something about the way you're living now — ^the 
people who have helped you in your work. That 
girl you roomed with first — for instance; what's 
become of her? 

EMELIE 

I don't know. I never see her any more. 

28 




THE CONFLICT 
MOTHER 

Why not? 

EMELIE 

Mother ! Let's not go into that. It's a long story 
— and it would have no bearing on the subject we 
are discussing. 

MOTHER 
{Mildly) 
I thought that was settled. 

EMELIE 

{Her eyes flashing ominously, hut her voice quiet) 
Did you? You thought that all my life to come 
was to be narrowed within the limits of your "NO" ; 
that I'd give up my plan to go to New York, to forego 
all the splendid opportunities this year is holding out 
to me, just because you believe my duty is here. And 
after all, is that your real reason, Mother? Isn't it 
rather that you're afraid — that you distrust your 
child — and your teaching? If not, why is it that you 
seem to resent each problem that I dare to solve for 
myself, each step I take unaided, each fresh proof 
that I'm no longer a child at your apron-strings? 

MOTHER 

Emelie ! 

EMELIE 

Yes, Mother, I beg your pardon. I know I'm going 
to hate myself presently for talking to you like this 
— but can't you see that I've got to fight you? All 
my life with you has been a fight — a fight to keep 
true to myself — ^a constant conflict of wills — ideals 

29 



THE CONFLICT 

and principles that clash and clash — it's terrible — 

terrible! Can't you see — 

(She stops to get hold of herself) 

MOTHER 

Can't I see what, Emelie ? 

EMELIE 

(More gently) 

Can't you see that you cannot hope to always have 
the ordering of your children's lives ? We grow up ; 
it is the way of children, Mother. We have adult 
responsibilities — problems of our own which we have 
a right to face ourselves ; and to each one of our bat- 
tles we bring all that we have inherited from our 
parents — and all the teaching we've got at their 
hands — but something of our own besides. And^ 
Mother 

(She kneels beside her) 
that something is the God within us! Forever to 
do violence to that something is to kill the individual. 
Can't you — can't you try to understand before it's 
too late? Jim — Bess — Bobs, even, will have his 
future some day to decide for himself. 

MOTHER 

That's just why you're needed at home; you're 
the eldest. You always were more like a boy than a 
girl — Jim'll listen to you. 

EMELIE 

It took me a long time. Mother, to realize how 
exacting your love was. Do you remember how you 
opposed the idea of my studying in Boston? Why, 

30 



THE CONFLICT 

if I had not gotten that first scholarship at the art 
school, Fd never have had my chance at all — and 
then I had to go v^ith the bitter thought of your dis- 
pleasure at my heart like a stone all summer long. 

MOTHER 

{Rather 'proudly) 

You had it in you ! You'd have gotten there just 
the same — no matter where you studied — if a little 
later, perhaps. 

EMELIE 

Yes, but that's such a tragedy! The joy of bat- 
tle and achievement belongs to youth! / want it 
now! Not when Fm forty. And you know that if I 
hadn't made good — right from the very start — I 
should have had to come home. Not because my 
people couldn't afford it — that I would have under- 
stood — but just because Fate — in your own person 
— said "No!" Talk about signs from heaven! I 
fairly worshipped those first checks. Why, fifty 
dollars was a fortune that meant room-rent for a 
month — yes, and food, too. It took so little to live 
in a hall bedroom with the aid of a twenty-five-cent 
gas-stove and the delicatessen around the corner. 

MOTHER 

(Dryly) 

No wonder you've ruined your digestion. 

EMELIE 

Digestion depends upon the frame of mind, 
Mother. Mine was better in the hall bedroom than 
it has been here in my father's house, bottling up 
my sorrow and fighting your displeasure. 

31 



THE CONFLICT 

{The girl's lips quiver pitifully. The Mother 
rises, and, on her way back to the sink with the ap- 
ples, she stops with a half clumsy caress and says 
gently) 

MOTHER 

You're a good girl, Emelie, lots of ways. You 
mustn't think I'm always finding fault with you. It's 
strange how you've taken your father's death harder 
than any of the other children — though you were 
away from home so much — and never his favorite. 

EMELIE 

I guess there's no grief quite so bitter as the loss 
of someone we have loved imperfectly. Oh, it's all 
so irrevocable — and it's such a pity. Father — work- 
ing, slaving all his life for us — unrecompensed, un- 
appreciated. 

MOTHER 

Why, Emelie ! I think we all did our duty by 
father. 

EMELIE 

Duty? Oh, yes. Duty — weighed — ^measured; so 
much politeness, so much service, so much tolerance 
of individual likings — ^with a sort of affection, too, 
of course. We all loved Father — Oh, as a father, all 
very much according to the letter of the law — but did 
any of us ever try to understand him — as an individ- 
ual, like ourselves? And now it's too late! Oh, 
Mother dear, I do wish we could understand each 
other a little better before I go. 

MOTHER 

(In the act of crossing to the range with the sauce-' 
pan of apples) 

32 



THE CONFLICT 

But I thought you'd come to see it my way — about 
going. 

EMELIE 

{With a little wail of hopeless desperation in her 
voice) 

Yes, yes, I know you did ! And the pity of it is that 
you'll keep on thinking so till the whistle blows. We 
talk round and round in a circle — and my train will 
be here in fifteen minutes. Couldn't you just give 
in once — kiss me good-bye and wish me success? 
It takes lots of strength to travel the hard lonely road 
in a strange city. 

MOTHER 

(The mother is through with her work. NOW 
they will have it out. She turns her back definitely 
upon the range, and for the first time speaks directly 
to the girl. All through the preceding scene she 
has made you feel that Emelie and her problem must 
take second place to this dish of apple-sauce — the 
duty of the moment) 

That's another thing I don't understand. You 
might as well be frank with me, Emelie. I've never 
liked secrecy — and you're mighty close about your 
affairs. You were perfectly content with Boston 
when you came here a month ago. What's changed 
you — why this sudden notion for going to New York, 
instead ? 

EMELIE 

{Half-heartedly) 

We'll all need more money now that Father's gone 
— and Jim's not making much yet. I think I can 
earn more in New York. 

33 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

And spend more, too. A year ago you were de- 
lighted with your place. 

EMELIE 

That was a year ago. Now, the drawing of insipid 
faces and faultless figures in absurd gowns seems 
intolerable — because I've grown and my work has 
grown. Fashion-work was just a means to keep me 
in food and lodging while I studied. 

MOTHER 

Suppose you don't get anything to do — what then ? 

EMELIE 

I'm pretty sure to fall into something. If I fail, 
there's always the fashion-work to fall back on. But 
I have offers — good ones. 

MOTHER 

Who from? 

EMELIE 

Friends who have faith in me. 

MOTHER 

That's another thing I don't like. You never ia^A; 
about your friends. 'Tain't natural — unless you're 
ashamed of them. 

EMELIE 

Mother ! 

MOTHER 

I don't care — it doesn't look right. You've had 
letters and sent some every day — even the day of the 

34 



THE CONFLICT 

funeral — but I notice how careful you were not to let 
them lie around none. 

EMELIE 

{Looks nervously around the room — her eyes light 
on the clock) 

Mother, we're wasting time. You've known all 
along that I couldn't stay on here indefinitely. 

MOTHER 

I can't see why not. Why is one place any better 
than another to make pictures in? The boys are 
away all day. You needn't be afraid I'd expect much 
housework of you. 

EMELIE 

(Looks at her mother in silence for a moment. 
There grows in her face a determination to force the 
issue, yet she reads the unspoken trouble at her 
mother's heart and her sense of justice counsels her 
to be very patient under the probe) 

Mother, suppose we quit fencing like this — get 
down to facts. Just why are you so determined to 
keep me here ? 

MOTHER 

I don't trust you, Emelie, and that's the truth. 
You are changed somehow. You're older and more 
world-wise — and nervous — and there's something 
going on that you don't tell me. You never were one 
to talk much, but you don't give me your confidence 
at all, now. 

EMELIE 

And you think you can force it ? Have I ever given 
you any real cause for not trusting me? 

35 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

{Reluctantly) 
Not as I know of. 

EMELIE 

Am I necessarily guilty of something unless I con- 
tinually prove myself innocent ? 

MOTHER 

I don't like it. You're not frank with me. 

EMELIE 

I'm all right, Mother. Oh, why should I worry 
you with my problems ? I can't do it — ^though I love, 
you, dear. 

(She flings her arms impulsively around her 
mothers neck; hut the whole unyielding figure is so 
prohibitive, so keenly censorious, that the next mo- 
ment her hands fall limply to her side) 

Well — what is it you want to know, Mother? 

MOTHER 

(Grasping at the permission, without noticing 
what she pays for it) 

This man you've been getting letters from — ^who 
is he? 

EMELIE 

A gentleman I met through my work. Mother. 
He's been very good to me — in a business way 

MOTHER 

Yes, but it don't look like just business to be writ- 
ing letters back and forth every day 

36 



THE CONFLICT 

» 

EMELIE 

Then it would be safe to conclude that there was 
more than just business between us. 

MOTHER 

What's his name? 

EMELIE 

(Flinching) 

Is that necessary ? 

MOTHER 

Are you ashamed of him? 

EMELIE 

No. 

MOTHER 

(After a dissatisfied pause) 
What's he do? 

EMELIE 

He's — he's on a magazine, Mother — what they call 
"Managing Editor." 

MOTHER 

That how you came to meet him ? 

EMELIE 

Yes. I illustrated some articles for him. 

MOTHER 

(Not looking at her) 

Known him long — do you see much of him? 

37 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

About a year. Yes, I see quite a great deal of 
him. 

{The girl's steady eyes have never wavered from 
her mother's face. There is a cold, hitter little smile 
about her lips. She could quicker understand a 
storm of passionate, anxious scolding than this in- 
quisitorial skirmishing that keeps getting closer and 
closer to the vital question, hut that dreads to ask it) 

MOTHER 

I suppose he takes you out — sometimes ? 

EMELIE 

Frequently. 

MOTHER 

You go — alone — with him? 

EMELIE 

Usually. 

MOTHER 

Of course — he's single? 

EMELIE 

No. 

MOTHER 

What! 

EMELIE 

(Stiffening against the tahle — her nervous hands 
fingering the edge of the cloth, her coat, her gloves) 

He's married. I don't think I am hurting his wife. 
She does not care. 

38 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

(Indignantly) 
How do you know? 

EMELIE 

They have not lived together for years; she's 
abroad most of the time. 

MOTHER 

(Speaking the word as though it were sacrilege) 
Divorced ? 

EMELIE 

No — there's a child — a girl, just reaching wom- 
anhood. For her sake — well, they've never just hap- 
pened to 

MOTHER 

And you run around with him like this — you? I 
want to know — he says he loves you ? 

EMELIE 

(Laughing shortly) 
Yes. 

MOTHER 

And you? 

EMELIE 

I love him — ^yes. 

(The last speeches have been spoken almost flip- 
pantly. Her attitude, during the earlier part of the 
scene, has been that of a child whistling in the dark. 
Now that her secret has been dragged boldly, nakedly 
into the daylight her attitude becomes one of im- 
pregnable, hurt defiance. In her anxiety the mother 
is blind) 

39 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

I can't grasp it! I've felt there was something 
like this in the wind all along — yet I couldn't believe 
it of you, Emelie. Mind you, Fm not saying you've 
done anything really bad 

EMELIE 

Thank you. 

{There is a flash of gratitude in her face hut it 
fades into bitterness as her mother quite uncon- 
sciously spoils it) 

MOTHER 

You've had too good training for that — but I didn't 
think you'd cheapen yourself so. How can you be- 
lieve this man 



EMELIE 

Because belief is the very life of love — something 
you've never learnt. Mother. You kill love by doubt- 
ing it. 

MOTHER 

Can't very well believe in a married man who 
makes love 

EMELIE 

Mother ! Might I suggest that you do not know 
either the man or the circumstances? 



MOTHER 

(Very emphatically) 

There aren't any circumstances that can make 
wrong right. 

40 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

Oh! 

{Pause) 

Very well. Then, since you've judged me, what do 
you propose to do? 

MOTHER 

I am trying to think. You want to go to New 
York. Why? 

EMELIE 

I told you 

MOTHER 

You didn't ! You told me a lot of nonsense. You 
never gave me the real reason. 



EMELIE 



Which is- 



MOTHER 

This man ! He lives in New York — or he's going 
to live there. Ain't that why you want to go ? 

(The girl looks at her mother incredulously — her 
whole attitude one of helpless aloofness. It is asi 
though she looked across an ever-widening gulf at 
the dead) 

EMELIE 

(With a gesture of hopelessness) 
Well 

MOTHER 

Do you think I can't put two and two together? 
Those big envelopes you got from New York yester- 
day and again to-day — and you walking about like 
one in a dream ! He's on a magazine you say — and 
look at you — so sure of getting work in a strange 
city. Well, why don't you speak? Isn't it so? 

41 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

What's the use of speaking? You can't expect to 
extract truth with a probe — and get it out undam- 
aged. You have chosen to put your own construction 
on appearances — go on! I'm anxious to see what 
you're going to make of it. Just what you will do 
to my life, 

(The train is heard whistling in the distance) 

MOTHER 

You shall not go to New York to-night. 

EMELIE 
No? Well, that looks exceedingly probable. I 
should have to run now to catch the train. Yet I 
could make it! Quick, Mother! I know all that's 
worrying you. But of what good was your training 
if you can't trust me ? I've made my choice — I want 
to abide by it. Just say that I may. 

MOTHER 

You see ! Why are you so set on going by this very 
train if it isn't an appointment ? If you are so deter- 
mined on leaving home to-night it will have to be for 
Boston. You're playing on the brink of a precipice 
— and you don't know it I 

EMELIE 

Take care, Mother, that you don't push me over — 

MOTHER 
Oh, yes — I know you're stubborn — but after all, 

42 



THE CONFLICT 

you're my child ! Maybe when you Ve had a night to 

think 

{The unwonted stimulus of opposition has aroused 
the mother quite out of her quiet calm. All the 
majesty of outraged motherhood is in her bearing as 
she sweeps to the outer door and locks it. After the 
first little cry of ''Mother, don't do that!'' the girl, 
makes no protest Listlessly she goes to the sink; as 
in a dream she washes her hands and dries them on 
the roller-towel, and at the little mirror studies her 
face curiously while she fastens on her hat. While 
she is doing this the smoke of the New York train 
darkens the window. The girl parts the curtains and 
stands watching. You hear the grinding of brakes, 
the hissing of escaping air, the momentary portent- 
ous silence, the clang of the bell, the exhaust — and 
then the throbbing of the departing south-bound 
train. The girl slips into her coat and picks up her 
bag as the mother moves stolidly over to the door 
and throws it open. Once more a shaft of sunlight — 
a long, pale one this time — falls across the threshold, 
and the birds break out into a joyous twittering. 
The girl joins her mother in the doorway, and for a 
moment they stand there in silence, so incongruously 
out of it all — all that the spring would tell them if 
they could but hear) 

EMELIE 

Well, Mother — good-bye. 

MOTHER 

I suppose you'll have to go, now. You wouldn't 
care to stay till morning? 

43 



THE CONFLICT 

EMELIE 

Hardly. 

MOTHER 

{Flustered by the girl's steady eyes, takes refuge 
in a commonplace) 

Fd 'a thought you*d have more pride, Emelie. I 
had when I was your age. You'll write? 

EMELIE 

I don't know — it depends. 

MOTHER 

On what? 

EMELIE 

I can't see the outcome of this, Mother. But what- 
ever happens I want you to feel that I'll not hold you 
responsible for my decisions. 

MOTHER 

Emelie ! 

EMELIE 

Funny ! You believe in predestination — don't you. 
Mother? I never did — before. I never could see 
Fate as a cat playing with a mouse — I never believed 
that God played with us in wanton sport, but what's 
the difference if he lets His creatures do it for Him ? 

MOTHER 

You mustn't talk like that — I don't understand. 

EMELIE 

I hope you never will. 

44 



THE CONFLICT 

MOTHER 

(Drawing her quickly to her in alarm) 
Emelie ! 

EMELIE 

Oh, don't! Please don't! 

{In a sudden hurst of anger she tears herself 
brusquely out of her mother's arms) 

You've faith in no one but yourself! Well, you 
can sleep to-night very sure of how beautifully you've 
managed everyone's life. 

(Train whistles) 

Let me go ! I don't want to miss my train. 

(Emelie goes quickly out of the door and down the 
walk without a backward look) 



MOTHER 

(Making a movement after her) 

Emelie! What a way for a girl to speak to her 
mother. 

(Muttering to herself) 

Well, she needn't feel so bitter about it. I'm 
sure I did it all for her own good. But that's the 
way with children. 

(Coming down) 

They never understand — ^till it's too late. She's 
forgot her flowers. Well, it's too late for them, too. 
I wonder what she meant by 

(Bess is heard calling from right "Emelie! Oh, 
Emelie! Where are you?'' She runs excitedly in at 
the door down right, and takes in her mother's ap- 
pearance with an evident start of dismay. Train is 
heard stopping) 

45 



THE CONFLICT 
BESS 

Why, Mother! Where's Emelie? Didn't she go? 
We waited for her at the siding. I'm sure she wasn't 
on the train for it stopped an awful long time there. 
We ran all the way back. I came cross-lots and 
through the front because Bob got a 

BOB 

{Who has run around the house is seen passing 
window and runs in at kitchen door) 
Didn't she go? 
{Train is heard going rapidly in distance) 



{After a pause) 
Yes — she went. 

To New York? 

No — to Boston. 



MOTHER 

BESS 
MOTHER 



BESS 

Oh ! I wonder what made her change her mind. 

BOB 

Shucks ! And I found this telegram for her at the 
post-office, too! That chump of a green kid of 
Sweeny's put it in our mail box. 

MOTHER 

A telegram? 

BOB 

Yes; do you suppose it's anything important? 

46 



THE CONFLICT 
MOTHER 

Give it to me. I'll see. 

{She opens it — reads — looks stunned. Still clutch- 
ing the envelope, in a dazed sort of way she drops the 
telegram, and crosses unsteadily towards the door, 
left) 

Emelie! My girl! Oh, why didn't you tell me? 
Why didn't you tell me? 

(She goes heavily, brokenly up the stairs, mutter- 
ing) 

I — I didn't understand her — she said Oh, 

my God — my God ! What have I done ? 

BOB 

Why, whatever's the matter with Mother? What's 
in the thing, anyway? 
(Picks up telegram) 
That's funny — I don't see anything in this 

BESS 

(Faintly) 

What's — it say, Bobs. 

BOB 

Why, all it says is — "You can't mean to go out of 
my life like this. Think how I need you. I shall be 
waiting at South Station for you to-night, with what 
anxiety you can imagine. Don't fail me. Devotedly, 
Craig." Who's Craig? Do you know? Well, any- 
way, it's from Boston. I don't see anything the mat- 
ter with that. She'll meet him 0. K. since she got 
that train. 

(Goes to stairway) 

47 



THE CONFLICT 

Oh, Mother! It's all right! That telegram was 

from Boston, you know. 

{Waits a moment; then starts up the stairs) 
Say, Mother! What's the matter? Ain't you 

goin' to have any supper ? 

BESS 

(Staring down at the forgotten flowers, and speak- 
ing in a low, frightened voice) 
She — didn't take — my lilacs. 



(curtain) 



48 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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